Hostile Work Environments
by TheLadyIntegra
Summary: I heard them discuss what Loki would do if he ever got his hands on a hostage - use them in whatever way necessary to gain his freedom. But there's no way my life could ever be worth that. Surely he knows it? Surely he doesn't think Fury will let him out because he threatened a cleaning lady? I don't want to die in here.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Post Avengers - Loki is kept on earth. Not Dark World-Compliant.

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

It's incredible the kind of hospitality S.H.I.E.L.D will offer a mass murderer if there's even the slightest chance his cooperation might be useful at some point in the future. I mean, I guess it could also be that his dad is a space warlord or whatever, but something tells me _that_ family relationship runs a bit too sour to warrant a cell that would probably fit in seamlessly in an expensive hotel. The kind of hotel with _good looking_ prostitutes and no crack pipe stains on the floor.

Unlike my place. Which is a dump, even for someone earning minimum wage. The guy responsible for the destruction of my previous home – with me inside it, of all the luck – gets lacquered wooden floors, a plush shag carpet rug, a king sized bed with green and gold sheets that look suspiciously like satin, a veritable library against two walls...

And me. The guards let him know that it's time as I enter the long corridor leading to his cell, pushing the trolley-cart with all my supplies along as I go. I'm dressed in loose fitting blue scrubs, a sad reminder of my old life. But they're comfortable and warm and made to handle stains anyway. I've pulled my hair into a ponytail high on my head, ensuring that no strands fall into my face. My hair has gotten darker over the past year, more mousy brown than honey blonde now. My curls have gone limp, my skin pale and kind of sickly. I blame the air down here. It's stale and cold.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflective glass of his cell as I approach and immediately avert my eyes from the sight. I used to think I was pretty. I used to wear sexy makeup and dress to get noticed. Now all I see is that unsettling white eye and the dark circles that make me look tired and old.

I peer up and watch as Loki obligingly steps into a small nook built off of his cell. Immediately, a pane of indestructible glass slides up and locks him in place. He's dressed in his standard leather getup – which I washed two days ago. He watches me with a cold, indifferent smile as his cell is opened to the outside world and I push myself and my cart inside. The cell seals shut behind me, and I waste no time getting to work. I always start by making his bed.

I've been doing this for almost a year now, and I don't think we've ever had a real conversation. I'm alright with that, to be honest. He's a murderer and the man responsible for the destruction of my life. He's the reason I'm blind in one eye. He's the reason I'm stuck on my hands and knees every second day, washing his floor and doing his laundry. He's the reason why, at twenty six years old, I was forced to leave behind a budding medical career and start scrubbing toilettes.

And I'm not nearly as good at conversation as I used to be anyway. I suspect I may come across as slightly bitter.

I don't even think he has any idea what kind of impact he's had on my life. He's a prince, the kind of guy who's used to 'servants' cleaning up after him. I probably don't even register as a person. Which is great for me, because I've witnessed the kind of treatment that people who register get. He's already landed eight men in hospital, two of whom died within a week. Sometimes they open his nook before they've finished closing the cell. It was barely even a fraction of an inch, but I've never seen anything happen so fast – his magic is green and poisonous and it can fly down a man's throat and mutilate his organs from the inside.

He did that to someone standing _right next to me_. A guard who, to be honest, I wasn't that fond of to begin with. He was always rude, and handled me kind of roughly. But he certainly didn't deserve that. I heard that he's going to survive, but he'll never regain his bladder control. Since then no one has come to escort me to and from Loki's cell. They tell me they have everything perfectly in hand from the control room, should anything go wrong.

That wasn't the first time he's hurt someone, but certainly the first time he's come so close to hurting _me_. I don't know how he picks his victims – but I wouldn't be surprised if he sticks with an old reliable, like eenie-meenie-miney-mo…

In which case, I was one lucky tiger. I struggled long and hard with the decision not to flee the country, go under the grid and hope that S.H.I.E.L.D didn't bother wasting the resources necessary to track me down and silence me. They've been generous, giving me this job, but I doubt that I'd be allowed to live if I left. I simply know too much about secret alien gods who are _supposed to be_ on another planet.

For the most part, Loki ignores me completely. The first few days he watched me, as if I was an interesting bug crawling over the wall. He made some ugly comments I don't care to remember – something about being glad that a mortal finally knew her place.

But pretty soon I proved myself to be mercifully uninteresting, and he now carries a book with him into his nook and spends my visits immersed in its pages.

Every now and then he gives me instructions. Let's me know he spilled wine – expensive wine, probably – on the corner of a sheet, or that the rug is getting dusty in _that_ corner. I have no idea why he can't just clean up after himself with magic, and I'd sooner go toe to toe with an angry snake than ask him.

I'm busy smoothing down his sheets when I hear an unmistakeable sound – glass sliding down. I turn, a frown on my face. I'm not even near done yet, why are they opening up already?

I freeze as I witness the panel of glass that leads outside – still sealed shut.

Oh god no.

I look over my shoulder and meet his eyes. For a moment I catch him looking as surprised as I am. He blinks at me, and then fluidly closes the book in his hand with a snap that makes me jump, and instinctively step back. His eyes narrow and a smile slowly spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, stepping cautiously out of his nook, folding his hands and his book behind his back, "This _is_ an interesting development."

"P-please," I choke out in a hoarse whisper, feeling tears flood to my eyes. I'm not sure what I'm asking for exactly. _Please don't hurt me…don't kill me…Please let me go…_

All I can see is that guard, screaming in agony as Loki's magic runs down his throat. He had done that off the cuff, with no time to give it much thought. But there's nothing but time now and I'm completely at his mercy – or lack thereof.

My shaking hands are clutching his comforter to my stomach as I back away, trying to put as much space between us as possible. The green and gold fabric slides away from his bed and trails over the floor, but I can't bring myself to let it go.

He raises his eyebrows at me, as if intrigued by my display of absolute terror. I can feel a panic attack coming, and it's all I can do to keep up my loud, shuddering breaths. My chest heaves around the effort.

He steps forward and sets his book gently on his coffee table, keeping his eyes on me from beneath his refined brow as he leans down. I find myself stumbling backwards gracelessly at the movement. My back hits his bookshelf and I inch myself towards the furthest corner. I'm trapped and there's nowhere left to run. My legs slowly give out at the thought and I sink to the floor, hugging his comforter to my chest like a small child. I blink and the first tears fall.

I don't want to die. It's a startling realization, and not one that relieves me.

Loki's smile has dropped away, and he's watching me with a slight frown. He opens his mouth to speak, but a sound cuts him off and he turns to stare out down the long corridor leading away from this place. I follow his gaze, blinking away my blurred vision with miserable confusion.

 _Gunfire? We're being attacked?_

Completely distracted from the pathetic little heap that is me, Loki turns and approaches the glass wall of his cell. I can see his face reflected in the glass, and he has that horrible smile back in place. He looks like he's waiting, but for what I have no idea. My head is still swimming with fear, but my heart has slowed. I'm running out of adrenaline and all I feel is bone-deep exhaustion. I hug my knees and close my eyes, unable to stop the rest of the tears that begin to fall as I realize just how screwed I am.

One of the things I heard from the guards when they assumed I wasn't listening was what would happen if Loki ever got his hands on a hostage. That person would be used in whatever way he considered necessary to gain his freedom. They had discussed torture, death, even rape.

But there is no way my life could ever be worth his freedom. Surely he knows that? Surely he doesn't think Fury will let him out because he threatens the _cleaning lady?_

When I open my eyes, Loki is watching me through our reflection, and his smile seems tight and threatening. I immediately look away, wishing I could make myself even smaller. If I hadn't already been victim to his cruelty through his alien army, and if I hadn't already seen his magic hurt another person…I might never have realized what a twisted, psychotic individual I was staring at. He has _dimples_. And Disney eyebrows that make his face far too expressive. He's all sharp angles, but somehow his face still seems soft.

It's not fair that he gets to look like an angel when he's worse than the devil.

* * *

A/N: I really shouldn't be writing this given my other obligations, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone. Let me know what you think :)


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

I've never been an aggressive person. Call it cliché, but there is a reason why I became a doctor. I don't like hurting people, or allowing people to be in pain. I'm passive to the verge of cowardice. I'm always the one who backs down in arguments, resulting in more than one boyfriend figuring out what a nice little doormat I make. I never even got to break up with them – they dumped me before I found the courage.

And my personal version of vengeance against the man who ruined my life is to come down here three times a week and do his laundry. I begged my way up a long line of progressively more important people until finally I was standing in front of Director Fury himself, struggling to explain why I _need_ this job.

Beyond the fact that it's one of the few jobs left in the world that I could qualify for, it's also my passive-aggressive way of making Loki _look at what he's done to me_. I don't care if he doesn't care. I just need him to see it. I need to be satisfied that he knows.

I was too cowardly to confront a demi-god and say all that, of course, but the Director had understood and promised to explain to Loki exactly who I once was. That was almost a year ago, and even though Loki has never acknowledged what he did or apologized, I was satisfied with my 'revenge'. It meant signing a whole lot of frightening contracts and earning a pretty pathetic salary, but it was worth it for the closure.

At least, before today.

Men in dark uniforms surround Loki's cell, faces hidden by dark cowls. All of them are armed. Their path of blood trails down the long corridor behind them. I don't really have friends here, but there are familiar faces that flash through my mind and I pray for their safety. These men, grim faced and silent, have caused Loki to smirk the most satisfied smirk I had ever seen, his cheekbones lifting into sharp relief above his wide, thin lips. His green eyes sparkle malevolently.

And I realize that even if I somehow manage to escape Loki, my chances of survival with these men is minimal at best. I don't know what would be worse – death by firing squad or death by psychopathic magician. Somehow, I doubt the choice will be mine.

I clasp my hands together. I've never really been religious, which seems to be quite a common thing among medical practitioners – at least the jaded ones.

 _But please, God, I don't want to die down here._

I watch from my corner, frozen by fear, as a tall man pushes through the crowd and pulls his cowl away from his face. He looks middle-aged and grim. He falls into a low bow.

"My Lord," he says with what sounds like sincere respect. Loki has a shit-eating grin on his face at the address, and inclines his head with such regal pomp I'm almost sure he's mocking Grim-Face _and_ himself.

"Greetings," he says, spreading his hands in false welcoming, "What brings such fine gentlemen to my humble abode?"

Grim-Face seems about to answer when he catches sight of me – an unimpressive sight, to be sure. I'm still huddled under Loki's comforter, trying to make myself look as small as possible – and frowns heavily. "You didn't kill the girl," he states and I stiffen. _No, no, no, no, no, don't point that out to him you sick freak!_

"Haven't I?" Loki says, sounding surprised and thoughtful. He turns to glance at me over his shoulder with raised brows. I shrink back and he's smiling again. "Must have slipped my mind." His glittering eyes make me feel cold inside.

I swallow uneasily as Grim-Face scowls. "Kill her. She has no part in this."

My breath hitches and I feel myself beginning to hyperventilate once more as Loki shrugs and comments, "If you insist." He raises a hand in my direction.

I bolt for the bathroom door, the only place that could put some sort of barrier between Loki and me, flimsy as it may be. But my legs promptly get tangled in the comforter and I fall out of sight behind his bed. My elbows knock painfully on the wooden floor, but I waste no time trying to crawl away. My entire body is shaking and I've never been so afraid. My mind is screaming but all I manage to produce are whimpers and desperate grunts.

Then I feel something – a strange tingling over my skin – and an invisible force grabs hold around my torso. I finally produce the scream that had been caught in my throat as my body is lifted off the floor and I'm slammed backwards into the bookshelf, my feet dangling at least a foot off the floor. I realize that I sound nothing like the female screams I've heard on TV. I sound like a creature, not a person. A creature made of fear and pain. I make eye contact with Loki, who still stands across the room, apparently holding me up with the Force, and frantically shake my head until my hair begins to fall loose from my ponytail, sticking to the cold sweat on my forehead.

I'm begging and screaming incoherently for my life. _"_ No _,_ no, no _NO! Please_ no _,_ no _,_ god, please _, don't, please!"_

I begin to sob hysterically, struggling to breath. Grim-Face and his men watch with obvious excitement and anticipation, shifting about restlessly. I don't want to feel any more pain. I don't want to die. All I can think of is how devastated my parents will be when they realize I'm gone. I've been so distant from them since my life turned inside out, but I still called them every week and made sure to visit as often as possible. I loved them so much and they loved me.

I'm already starting to think in past tense. My crying subsides as I give in to despair, and it is only then that I hear Loki's soft laughter. I sniffle and open my eyes. He gives me a look I can't decipher and lowers his hand. I find myself unceremoniously dropped to the floor, where I promptly crumple into a heap. I lay there, breathless, and stare at Loki's legs from my view under the coffee table.

He turns back to Grim-Face with a snicker, as if he hadn't just given me nightmares for the rest of my life - however long that may be. "Perhaps later," he tells Grim-face, sounding amused, "Good help is so hard to find on this planet." He suddenly turns and looks at me sharply, halting my feeble attempt to escape once more to the relative safety of the bathroom. "Stay right there, darling," he says. I blink at him tearfully and we hold eye contact for a moment that feels far too long. He seems to be waiting for something, so I nod my head quickly. He gives me another one of those smiles that seem too boyish to belong to him and I lower my gaze in misery.

I can't help the shudder of relief that flows through me when he starts talking to Grim-Face again, sapping all the energy from my limbs. I'm alive – and I can't believe it after my pitiful, hysterical display. Tears and snot run down my face and I still can't regulate my breathing. I want to throw up, but I resist the nausea.

I hate Grim-Face and Loki and all of them, for watching me while I begged for my life. For getting off at the sight. I want them all to drop dead or burst into flames or kill each other off. I kind of want to kill them myself.

But I've never been an aggressive person. So instead, I wipe my snotty, teary face clean on Loki's comforter.

Maybe later I'll blow my nose on his favorite pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: It's been so long I've legit forgotten what weak-ass plot reason I had for Grim-Face to show up. But whatever man, you didn't come here for that shit, right? It's cool if I make it up again as I go...

...right?

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3**

I have lost focus for a while, Loki and the men in uniform's discussion fading into a peripheral haze. I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here in silence, staring at the same point on the wooden floor. I wonder if I'm in shock. I take note of my cold, sweaty skin and the trembling of my limbs. I am – _was_ – a doctor. And yet I can't figure out how to fix this.

The light in this cell seems too bright and my vision, the half of it I have left, is blurring around the edges. I note my shallow breathing and take a deep breath, the rush of air briefly restoring me before I sluggishly sink back into a daze. My focus slowly slides up to Loki and I frown to see the men in uniform presenting him with a strange device that looks a lot like a gauntlet from a dungeons and dragons cosplay. It would fit right in with Loki's choice of apparel, and he seems to be studying it quite intently through the glass.

"Very well," he says and I blink tiredly, wondering what horrible thing he could have agreed to. Grim-Face smiles like Loki has just brought Christmas early, and it's a disturbing sight on a grown man. What did Loki do? What did I miss?

"Thank you, My Lord. Unfortunately…" he trails off and gestures somewhat nervously to the nook behind Loki. "You understand of course…" he suggests diplomatically.

"Of course," Loki agrees cheerfully and turns around with an unsettling grin. His eyes fall on me as he approaches his smallest cage and he stops. I watch his face as his eyes flicker between the men outside and me. I thought I had gone numb, but fear starts to build once more in my belly the longer he frowns down at me. Finally, he outstretches a hand.

I flinch back, knocking the back of my head on a wooden shelf behind me. It's a few seconds before I register that his hand is held palm up, and he waits a moment for me to calm down. "You may want to come over here," he suggests in a soft, coaxing voice. My eyes widen.

I can't say a word, I simply shake my head in mute fear. He doesn't seem deterred, and his hand remains presented. "Perhaps it's just me, but I've noticed a certain hostility towards you from these men. Would you truly prefer their bullets to my company?" He says this with a tone of hurt that is completely ruined by the mocking smile that spreads over his face.

"To your magic," I respond hoarsely before thinking and I shudder with immediate regret. I hadn't meant to speak a word to him.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you. Why would I waste the effort?"

The stress makes me snap, and I say somewhat hysterically, "You just tossed me into a bookshelf for shits and giggles, you lying psycho! Why don't you tell me?"

The world spins around me and darkness creeps into the edges of my vision as the words leave my mouth, beyond my control. I'm sure I've made a fatal mistake – and green mist is going to flow down my throat and scramble all of my organs – when he chuckles quietly and lowers his hand.

"Ah, that was just a bit of fun," he shrugs one shoulder and turns, moving towards the nook, "But have it your way."

Something about the way Loki just drops the issue and walks away makes me panic. What if he's telling the truth? What if he's actually the lesser evil? Those men _do_ seem somewhat disgruntled by his behavior, as if his offer of protection is foiling their plans. What did I ever do to them?

"Wait!" I cry a moment before he steps over the threshold that would separate us. He stops and I scramble to my feet. "I…" I want to ask him to promise not to hurt me, but the words get lodged in my throat. It's not like I could trust a promise from him anyway. God of Lies and all that. He raises a single eyebrow at me, that derisive smile still in place.

I round the coffee table and approach him on shaky legs. I stop in front of him, terrified to move past him and present him with my back. We stand like that for a moment, like the most one sided Mexican standoff ever.

Then Loki obviously loses his patience, because his arm lurches out and his hand wraps around my upper arm like a steel band. I let out an undignified cry and instinctively try to pull away, but all _that_ accomplishes is a shooting pain in my arm when his fingers tighten. An ordinary guy Loki's size could probably manhandle me without too much trouble, but those fingers were strong enough to tear through steel.

 _More_ than strong enough to tear through _me_.

But instead of ripping my arm off, which is literally the first and only thought consuming me, Loki drags me over the threshold of his nook and shoves me roughly into the corner. I half land on the cushioned surface running along the edge of the glass, where Loki usually reclines during my work hours. I'm starting to become fed up with crying, but the tears are completely out of my control. I press myself into the glass as Loki steps into the nook with me, clutching my arm protectively.

It hurts like a bitch where he grabbed me, but it's hardly a pressing concern compared to the total panic and claustrophobia that envelops me when the glass slides up, trapping me in the confined space with him. To think I felt trapped before – this is so much worse. I'm stuck within grabbing distance of an evil god - one who looks like he's lost his taste for my whimpering if I'm reading the look on his face right.

"Don't you think you're being a bit _dramatic?_ " he asks with an unfriendly sneer. The megalomaniac that went after my planet in a misguided attempt to sort out his own personal drama thinks _I'm_ being dramatic.

I'm a 130lb mortal girl stuck in a space the size of a cupboard with the 6ft4 mass murdering, magic-wielding demigod that inadvertently half-blinded and brain damaged me, _and_ not minutes ago tricked me into thinking I was a dead woman for _fun_. Wretched and pathetic maybe, but no, I won't cop to dramatic. So, in my first and probably last display of pluck, I shake my head, pulling my knees up to my chest and trembling all the while. "No," I say tersely, watching his every twitch for signs of impending attack. Not that seeing it coming would help in the slightest.

Loki exhales sharply through his nose, making me flinch. He looks annoyed, and I realize that if I don't get my act together he might just decide to shut me up – and there are a variety of unpleasant methods to do so at his disposal.

God, looking into his eyes I realize I'm _that_ girl. I'm the girl in the movie that's so busy freaking out the whole audience is routing for her to just die and get her pitiful, uninteresting display of terror off-screen. I'm the girl that gets eaten first. The one who goes up the stairs. _Why do they always go up the stairs?_

And why, oh why did I come work here? I very clearly don't have a death wish. Which means I'm just stupid. I need to live past this so I can spend the rest of my life hating myself.

Loki has turned away from me to watch Grim-Face and some of his men enter his cell. As they deposit the gauntlet on the coffee table, the annoyance quickly fades from his face. It's replaced by a look of anticipation that probably doesn't bode well for me or anyone else. It probably doesn't bode well for the planet at large. I feel like I'm bearing witness to a cataclysmic event when the men retreat from the cell, locking the outer glass in place and releasing Loki and I from the nook.

Loki doesn't waste any time, he strides over to the gauntlet and picks it up, turning it over in his hands. I follow him, feeling like the very least I could do for humanity is watch what the evil god that tried to conquer us all is doing with that suspicious-ass glove. Loki turns his head slightly at my hesitant approach and absentmindedly reaches down, grabbing the book he had been reading earlier.

He tosses it back to me and I catch it with only a slight fumble. "There, keep yourself busy and out of my way."

I stare down at the book in my hands, my mind going blank. I look at the title, see the letters without understanding them. They look like nothing to me, just frustrating pictures that once had meaning. The blankness is slowly overtaken by something else.

I'm shaking harder than I was before, but not from fear. My vision almost goes white with rage. It's like I have no control over my body or my actions. Before I know what I'm doing I've drawn my arm back and, with a howl of fury, thrown the book as hard as I possible can.

It connects solidly with the back of Loki's head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The book is a thick hardback and it hits Loki with its corner, so hard the ' _thunk'_ echoes. The book hasn't even hit the floor before my rage inconveniently beats a retreat, leaving me cold and horrified by my actions.

I know the men outside are having some reaction to all this, but all I can see is Loki and the way he's stiffened in place. Then slowly, deliberately, he places the gauntlet back on the table and turns around to face me. The look on his face makes my blood freeze.

His eyes are like icy chips of pure malice. Then he smiles, bearing all his teeth, and cocks his head slightly to the side in an unnerving twitch of displeasure. "Now _that_ wasn't very clever."

"I-I…" I stutter helplessly, unable to get any further before he steps over the felonious book and starts walking towards me with the calculating stride of a predator. "Wait, wait!" I shout, raising my hands out in front of me as I back away, "I'm sorry, okay, _I'm sorry!_ "

And I really am. I'm only just beginning to realize how merciful Loki has been with me so far, his twisted idea of ' _fun_ ' and harsh, grabby fingers aside. Judging by the psychotic smile on his face I'm positive his leniency has come to an end and I'm about to be murdered, through no one's fault but my own. And that's the worst part – the aching pit of regret at the realization that I might have been allowed to live if I'd just been less of an impulsive moron.

Loki ignores my shaky apology, still stalking me determinedly as I try to maneuver myself so he can't back me up against the glass. I want to summon back the rage, the _hatred_ that had spurred my idiocy in the first place, but I'm too afraid and all I can do is cry some more. He follows me doggedly until I've backed myself up next to his bed. If I can just jump over it, maybe I can make it to the bathroom and shut myself in. It's my last, feeble hope for survival.

But either Loki realizes what I'm about to do, or he's just lost interest in the 'chase', because the moment my muscles tense to make the leap over the bed, he strikes.

He's faster than I could have possibly imagined. I don't even have an opportunity to scream before he's lunged, and wrapped a single hand around my neck. The back of my knees make contact with the bed and I'm forced down on my back, Loki pushing himself between my legs and leaning over me with a snarl on his face. He rests his left hand beside my head, creating an indent in the mattress that I would have slid into if not for his firm grip on my throat.

The position he has me in is like a trigger for pure, primal female terror. I start to thrash wildly, and that's when his grip starts to tighten, from pinning me down to suffocating the life out of me. I push against his upper body with my hands, but it's like trying to budge a brick wall, merely disguised as a man in leather. I start to beat my fists uselessly against his chest. He's not even trying to hold me off. I'm making horrible choking sounds as I try to scream and beg for my life around his stranglehold.

It _hurts_ , like nothing I've ever felt before. It's more than just the agony of his deathgrip – it's the burning fire in my lungs that starts out innocuous but is soon taking over all my other senses. I need to _breath_ , I need _air!_

When his face starts to blur beyond the usual from my tear-streaked vision, I realize I'm close to passing out – or death. I give up trying to beat him off, which had done nothing but piss him off and waste precious energy so far, and instead wrap my hands around his wrist. I try to pry him off, but it's like a kitten trying to pry off a bear. A weak, dying kitten.

I only manage a few frail tugs before my grip on his wrist weakens and my eyes begin to flutter. I make one last attempt to call him off, and it comes out as a fragile squeak.

And, miraculously, it works. Loki scowls fiercely, but the cruel fingers around my neck are gone. It takes me a moment to realize I'm free before I begin trying to suck in precious air. I roll onto my side underneath him, pulling my legs up from around him to curl into a protective ball, cradling my neck with my hands while I gasp and choke. The air isn't coming and for a heart stopping moment I think it's because he's caved in my throat.

He's still leaning over me, the hand that had been killing me moments ago now on the other side of my head, caging me beneath him. He's staring down at me with a completely unreadable look on his face while I try vainly to breathe again.

But I can't. I'm past the point of no return and the asphyxiation is irreversible. If I don't do something, I know I'll die. So I grab the arm in front of me and tug on it desperately, looking pleadingly up at him over my shoulder. I whine hoarsely, begging him without words to save me, to undo the damage somehow.

Loki sighs loudly and exasperatedly, as if my predicament were a nuisance of my own making. His one hand roughly grabs my arm, pushing me over onto my back again and then his other hand is back over my throat. I whimper and widen my eyes up at him beseechingly – _no, please, don't do it again!_ – but instead of the pain I expect and fear, I feel a warmth spread into my skin where he's touching me. The pain doesn't recede much, but blessed air suddenly floods my lungs and I inhale so powerfully I almost black out from the sudden influx of oxygen. My chest heaves up and down with my renewed respiration.

Then he grips my jaw firmly, forcing me to focus on his face. "I trust I won't have to _repeat_ this lesson, mortal," he says quietly, his soft, pleasing voice an awful juxtaposition to his brutality.

I shake my head, curling my fists into the blankets beneath me. Loki nods and pats my cheek with a condescending smile. "Marvellous." I lay limp on the bed as he straightens up, following his retreat with my eyes. He walks back over to the coffee table and picks the gauntlet back up, much to the men outsides renewed interest. "Now where were we…" he mutters to it, turning it over in his hands and giving it his undivided attention.

Those beautiful, elegant hands had brought me to the brink of death and back. I can't bear to look at them, or him, any longer. I gingerly sit up, cradling my throat. I swallow and wince powerfully at the pain. Whatever Loki did to help me breath again hasn't healed the damage, only mitigated it. He clearly wants the _'lesson'_ to be a lasting one.

If I hadn't hated him before, I do now. But the evolution of my hatred is nothing to the evolution of my fear, so I'm not anywhere near tempted to say what's on my mind.

That he's a monster. Worse, that he's a _bully_. A common thug. There's no way that book hurt him. And even if it did, there's no way it hurt him enough to justify his attack. He half killed me because he could, because he probably enjoys throwing his weight around. His intelligent, sophisticated veneer is nothing but a disguise, hiding a brutish, petty man who pretends to be better than he is, all the while just _waiting_ for any excuse to explode with violence.

And he _does_ need the excuse, so he can keep playacting the put-upon victim, the poor deceived princeling. He finds out he's adopted and tries to kill half his family. A guard is a bit rude and he attacks him with magic, disabling him for the rest of his life. I throw a book at him and he almost strangles me to death. I'm beginning to see an ugly pattern of disproportionate retribution.

And the worst part is how _justified_ he obviously feels. If _anyone's_ actions today are justifiable, its _mine_. After all, _he's_ the reason I'll never be able to read again. And he should _know_ that – Fury had _promised_ he would tell him. So either Fury had lied, Loki had forgotten, or he gave me that book deliberately to torment me.

I'm fairly vibrating with helpless anger, but somehow I don't think it's the latter. There hadn't been nearly enough attentiveness there for it to have been deliberate. And Loki doesn't seem like the forgetful type.

Which leaves only one explanation. Fury lied to me. He never told Loki what he'd done.

The evil bastard has no idea.

* * *

A/N: Hey guys? Do me a solid, and if you like what you see, _tell me_. My self esteem needs it, I kid you not. It's taken a pounding this last year, and the last chapter was the first time I'd written _anything_ in over nine months. Over NINE FREAKING MONTHS PEOPLE.

But anyway, shameless review begging aside, I should say that this will be a slooowwww buuuurrrrnnn, and an angsty one at that. I love that shit man.


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